


It's Ineffable

by levicas



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Gen, Jealousy, M/M, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-26
Updated: 2013-08-26
Packaged: 2017-12-24 18:36:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/943290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/levicas/pseuds/levicas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aziraphale makes a new friend, and Crowley isn't happy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's Ineffable

**Author's Note:**

> I just needed to write something Good Omensy, and this is what I ended up with. I can't quite decide on a time for this to be set, but it's probably about a year after the apocalypse.

The ducks quacked obnoxiously. It seemed the more alcohol Aziraphale and Crowley consumed the more loathsome those bloody birds became. At one point Crowley had to stop Aziraphale from stepping on one, though that was more due to the fact that the angel was incapable of controlling his movements than his hatred for irritating fowl. Nevetheless, Crowley knew that Aziraphale wouldn’t want to be responsible for the death of another innocent bird – he still went on about the dove incident every now and then, but Crowley always did his best to humour him. He promised Aziraphale he’d never let him do anything that required a magician’s cloak ever again, but that was more for his own sanity than anyone else's. It wasn’t like Aziraphale particularly cared about a single duck or dove, it was just inconvenient.

Besides, Aziraphale couldn’t be that bothered since he was currently feeding the ducks bread, and Crowley remembered being told once, by Aziraphale no less, that it was bad for them. Aziraphale had said a couple of slices couldn’t hurt, but three loaves and seven bottles of wine later and he couldn’t care less. The wine was too delicious, and the pair of them were far too drunk. They’d vacated the bench about an hour ago and Aziraphale was now leaning closely into Crowley’s side, unable to walk for himself (not that Crowley was much more stable), and singing a bizarre medley of songs from the Sound of Music at the top of his lungs.

Needless to say they’d earned their fair share of confused glances by the time night began to fall.

With the feel of Aziraphale’s body against his own, the mop of shaggy blond hair tickling his chin, it was hard for Crowley to imagine anything better. Aziraphale was perfect, even when he was killing fowl and performing abysmal magic shows, or going several days without talking to him because he just had to decipher the prophetic nature of his new favourite triology. And no, he wasn’t referring to the Nice and Accurate Prophecies. He was talking about _The Lord of the Rings_ , which Aziraphale had decided about a month ago was written as a social commentary on how our society would inexplicably end up. Crowley had tried to argue that it was just a work of fiction, but it was hard to sway Aziraphale when he had his mind set on something.

That was another thing that he loved – Aziraphale was so passionate, he threw his heart and soul into everything he did, even if it meant leaving Crowley in the dust. It didn’t matter though, Aziraphale mattered. They’d spent too long playing at enemies on opposite sides – key word, _playing_ \- and now that the whole Apocalypse thing was over they needn’t worry about any sort of grand interference. They could just be them. Just Aziraphale and Crowley from Westminster who often dined at the Ritz and went to feed the ducks. Perhaps they’d never even have to move, they’d just be those two blokes who were always there, never ageing and never moving. 

“Azi, Azi, Azi,” Crowley said, pulling Aziraphale closer with the arm that was currently wrapped around his waist. He’d been intending to speak Aziraphale’s full name, but the rest of the word died on his tongue and he found himself measuring the new nickname on it for size. He liked it. It had charm.

“Crowles,” Aziraphale whined, turning to flop into Crowley’s chest so he could hide in the curve of his shoulder. Evidently he didn’t like his new nickname, and his form of revenge was to give Crowley one of his own. Crowley frowned. _Crowles_ made him sound like a puppy. He wasn't a puppy. Just to be sure he patted the top of his head - no ears. Definitely not a puppy.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley said, trying to sound more serious. It must have worked because Aziraphale turned his head so he could stare expectantly into Crowley’s eyes. It was a little unnerving, that intense stare.

“Yes, my dear?”

Crowley smiled. It didn’t matter. It would be like telling a blind man that he couldn’t see. Just the depth of Azirphale’s grey eyes were enough to convince him that his feelings were reciprocated. He probably wouldn’t be so certain once they were both sober, but for now the future didn’t matter. Aziraphale was here and there was no need to turn the night sour with awkward confessions.

"Nothing, angel."

* * *

By midnight Crowley had decided it was time to drag Aziraphale back to his flat in Mayfair, and he insisted that he stay the night. Aziraphale hadn’t put up much of a fight and had collapsed on Crowley’s bed, on top of the covers, and been out like a light before Crowley could find a blanket to cover him. It was extraordinary how quickly the angel could fall asleep sometimes, considering that he didn’t need it, but then again he understood. It was a way to pass the time if nothing else, and Crowley was happy to do the same. 

He shuffled under the blankets next to Aziraphale, careful not to jostle him. He looked so peaceful in his sleep, and occasionally his limbs twitched in a way that reminded Crowley of a sleeping dog dreaming of chasing birds through the park. He briefly wondered what Azirpahale was dreaming about. He stayed awake for a few hours, having decided to expel the alcohol from his system in order to appreciate Aziraphale's sleeping form as fully as possible, but by the time the sun began to rise he was out like a light.

The morning was unwelcome when it arrived, especially when Crowley realised that Aziraphale was no longer beside him. He took a deep breath through his nose, expecting to smell the glorious scent of breakfast cooking – he’d had that fantasy before, many a time – but was met with nothing but the potent stench of the air freshener which he had stupidly place by his bedside. He frowned as he forced himself out of bed, and shrugged out of the suit jacket he was still wearing. It wasn’t creased but the trousers were, and he couldn’t be seen wearing a suit that didn’t match – he wasn’t a barbarian. He changed his shirt too, deciding on a red one that Aziraphale had bought for him that one year he’d decided to convince Crowley to buy things instead of just willing them into existence. 

All of his gusto from last night had vanished, and just like he’d predicted he no longer thought that he was satisfied with the way things were. They’d been the same for far too long, and although he and Aziraphale were closer now than they ever had been he still felt it was necessary to take the next step. He wanted as much time with Aziraphale as possible, and they only had forever. He wanted Aziraphale to be his, and only his. He was as good as at the moment, but without any real commitment that could easily change.  
He combed his hair like Aziraphale was always nagging him to, and left his apartment without breakfast - it wasn’t like he needed to eat anyway. He walked to the bookshop, a slight spring in his step but halted just outside when he caught a glimpse through the window. There was someone in there, a man that most certainly was not Aziraphale. He had dark skin the colour of mocha and thick black hair even darker than Crowley’s. Upon a second glance Crowley noticed Aziraphale standing opposite the man, engrossed in what appeared to be unwilling conversation. He'd seen that man in the bookshop before, and it was very rare that Aziraphale ever had a returning customer, if any customers at all.

Trying his best not to be noticed, Crowley slipped in through the bookshop’s front door and hid behind the first shelf of books, crouching low to the floor as if that would help him to conceal himself. If Aziraphale noticed, he didn’t say anything. Not that he had much of a chance to get a word in edgewise. The man kept talking, asking questions about rare editions that Crowely couldn’t didn't care for and refusing to leave. It was close to twenty minutes later when Aziraphale, none too politely, instructed the man to leave as he had some very important work to do. Crowley doubted the truth of that, but was merciful when the strange man left with nothing more than Aziraphale’s phone number – hopefully the angel had had the common sense to give him a false one. Aziraphale didn’t get a lot of customers, and ones as enthusiastic and difficult to persuade in a different direction were even rarer.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said, sounding a little fed up. Crowley froze. He hadn’t been moving anyway but upon hearing Aziraphale mutter his name even his heartbeat seized for a moment. He heard Aziraphale sigh and could just imagine the angel fixing his tie even though it didn’t need to be fixed. “Crowley,” he said again, softer this time. “Why are you hiding?”

Admitting defeat, Crowley slid down the shelf and plopped himself on the floor with his back to the books. He didn’t even want to look at them. He should have known that trying to hide from Aziraphale was futile, but he hadn’t been doing so well lately and had purely acted on impulse. He didn’t answer his friend’s question and instead pursed his lips into a hard line. He was shocked when he felt Aziraphale slide into place next to him, quieter than a mouse. 

“You’ve been acting odd lately,” Aziraphale noted. It wasn’t an accusation, just a comment. Crowley didn’t honour the statement with a response. “You’re hiding behind bookshelves, you talk too quickly and I’m almost certain that yesterday you got me drunk on purpose. I don’t appreciate hangovers, you know.” He said the last bit with a slight jocular edge to his voice, a subtle way of letting Crowley know that he wasn’t all that bothered. 

He could have told Aziraphale what he’d been meaning to say the whole time right then and there, but when he looked into his angel’s grey eyes all logical thought abandoned him. Aziraphale’s form hadn’t changed a great deal over the years, and even when it had those eyes had stayed the same. Always grey like the sky during a storm, but far calmer and more inviting. He sucked in a sharp breath - realising he hadn’t been breathing too much over the past few minutes - when Aziraphale raised a perfectly styled eyebrow in his direction clearly having noticed _something_. He wondered how much Aziraphale had already figured out.

Crowley opened his mouth, trying to force coherent words to come out of it, only to snap it shut a few seconds later. He repeated the process about five times until he gave up and resorted to more trivial topics of conversation.

“So, how about that customer?” he said in a voice that sounded thick with false sincerity, even to himself. Aziraphale smiled and patted his hand, which Crowley hadn’t realised was placed cautiously on Aziraphale’s knee. He didn’t remember doing that, but he was sure it ought to be sufficiently embarrassing so perhaps it was good that he didn’t remember.

“He’s been coming in here every day for a while. Asking lots of questions. It’s nice to have customers sometimes, but it does get awfully irritating when they don’t leave,” said Aziraphale, frowning.

“I can take care of that if you’d like,” Crowley offered tentatively after a moment. He was sure Aziraphale would turn down that offer, he’d never really been one to mindlessly murder humans, him being an angel and all. But it was the thought that counted, right? And it was a nice thought, he didn't just offer out free kills to anybody. Aziraphale should at the very least appreciate the offer as a gesture of kindness.

“That’s quite alright, my dear,” said Aziraphale, as was to be expected. Crowley smiled, unable to stop himself. Aziraphale was just so…Aziraphale. Ever gracious and polite, even when turning down a demon’s offer to murder someone in cold blood. 

Aziraphale sighed deeply and gently laid his head on Crowley’s shoulder without allowing the demon the opportunity to move an inch, not that he would have if he'd been given that chance. He had to suppress a smile by biting the inside of his cheek when he felt Aziraphale’s fingers gently intertwine with his own, the angel's palm pressed firmly to the back of his hand. It was by no means anything more than a friendly gesture, it was just Aziraphale. He did things like that sometimes, but Crowley didn’t mind. He revelled in the touch of Aziraphale's skin.

“It’s rather peculiar, isn’t it, Crowley?” Aziraphale said, the tone of his voice suggesting he was about to go off on one of his long rambles about metaphysics or the _ineffable plan_ or something else Crowley didn’t have the decency to make himself understand. 

“What is?” he asked, intent on humouring the angel more than actually taking part in an intelligent conversation. Sometimes with Aziraphale that was necessary.

“How we’re still here, just like in the garden.”

“Soho is a little different to the garden,” said Crowley. He felt Aziraphale smile against his shoulder. 

“And you’re no longer a serpent,” Aziraphale noted. Crowley chuckled and turned his face into Aziraphale’s hair, it smelt like strawberry and tickled his face just like it had done last night. “My point is, we’re still together. I always assumed after the Apocalypse we’d go back to our own circles, but it seems that now our circles have become permanently intertwined.” Aziraphale’s smile fell from his lips. “It’s good, though, is it not? Friends are not as underrated as I may have once assumed."

Crowley didn’t respond. _Friends_ , he thought. Friends was good, definitely, but it wasn’t perfect. They were more than friends, surely. Years of being casual enemies, more due to principal than any actual hatred they bore for each other, followed by years of what Crowley had always assumed was a mutual agreement to keep out of each other’s way. Looking back now he realised that it was that silent agreement that led to them becoming friends. Just friends. Purely platonic…friends. And certainly nothing more.

* * *

The phone. It was a great invention, and he mentally kicked himself for having not thought of it before. If he had to tell Aziraphale – which he felt that he did, he couldn’t lie to the angel – then why not just do so over the phone? He didn’t have to see Aziraphale’s face, and although that would have its downsides it also had its advantages. Fewer distractions for one thing. And if Aziraphale didn’t return whatever feelings he harboured for his friend then he could just hang up and pretend it never happened! That was far easier than running away like he’d have to if they had this conversation in person. He could just say the line got disconnected. Or that it wasn’t really him. Or that it was a joke. Or an imposter! There were endless possibilities really, and suddenly he was eternally grateful for the existence of the telephone. 

It had been a few days since Crowley had seen Aziraphale, they’d spent a few hours sitting on the floor of his bookshop and then watched the Sound of Music. Again. Crowley smiled slightly at the memory, Aziraphale always insisted on singing along. His voice was beautiful, he sung like, well, like an angel. Crowley was almost certain he would gladly listen to Aziraphale sing forever. But ten minutes into their phone call, and Crowley wasn’t so much loving the idea anymore. Aziraphale was talking about a new book he’d been reading. At the recommendation of Abraham. Abraham, aka Creepy Bookshop Man Who Crowley Was Pretty Sure Had Been Stalking Aziraphale For Quite Some Time Now. Crowley preferred his nickname for the man, but he had to admit that Abraham rolled off the tongue a little easier.

Crowley didn’t bother to listen to anything Aziraphale said about the book, but he made sure to _mmm_ and _ahh_ in all the appropriate places. It was an art he’d perfected a long time ago. Even now, when Aziraphale was gushing about his newfound friend Crowley made sure to keep up his facade. That was another good thing about the phone, Aziraphale couldn’t see his reaction or the faces of contempt he was pulling. He supposed if Aziraphale had to tell him about his new best friend the phone was the best place to do it.

He should have arranged Abraham’s death when he’d had the chance, pushed the idea a little more until Aziraphale eventually agreed. Even if he didn’t, Crowley could just go ahead and kill him anyway. Aziraphale would be mad, but he’d settle down like he always did. Crowley had done his fair share of bad stuff that the angel disagreed with in his existence and Aziraphale had forgiven him every single time. After all, what was one stiff between friends? But now it was too late, Aziraphale was in too deep, now Creepy Bookshop Stalker had an actual name and a personality which Aziraphale admired. Now Abraham wouldn’t just be a dead body, he’d be a dead friend. Killing a friend meant that it would take a lot longer for Aziraphale to forgive him, and he’d undoubtedly end up feeling a little bit guilty. Not for killing the friend, but for upsetting Aziraphale. He didn’t’ deal with guilt well, so it seemed he had very few options.

“I’m glad I gave him a chance, these humans can be amazing, you know. They have such a thirst for knowledge. I mean, some of them are really awful but Abraham is far better than all of those! He does a lot of charity work to help cure cancer and volunteers at animal homes. Ooh, and he knows all the words to the Sound of Music! Isn’t that great? Tomorrow we’re going to see Billy Elliot at the Victoria Palace, it’s supposed to be amazing! And last night at the Ritz he told me that he--”

“What?” Crowley said, snapping out of his distant reverie. He…no, he must have misheard. “What did you say?”

“Billy Elliot, it’s about--”

“No, after that. Where did he give it to you?”

“The Ritz,” Aziraphale said slowly. He had the good grace to sound a little guilty. The line was silent for a few moments. “Crowley, I--”

“No, no, it’s fine,” Crowley lied, praying to whatever higher power was listening that Aziraphale wouldn’t notice the hurt he couldn't quite keep out of his voice. “Did you have a good time?”

* * *

He’d acted like a complete and utter tosser, he realised that now. Actually, he’d realised that straight away. The second he hung up the phone yesterday the first thing he thought to himself was: _shit_. It hadn’t been the right way to go about things, but what else was he supposed to do? Just stand idly by while some lousy human came and stole Aziraphale away from him? Give it another fifty or so years and Abraham would be dead and they could move on, but it would be fifty years wasted and Crowley didn’t want to waste another second.

He knew what he needed to do. He needed to apologise. _Dammit._ It wouldn’t be easy, he wasn’t very good at apologies. And what was he supposed to say? He’d sound childish and pathetic, but he had to hold onto Aziraphale far tighter now that Abraham was threatening to take his place. It wasn’t like he could blame the human. Aziraphale had an endearing quality about him that just naturally drew people towards him, it was hardly surprising that Abraham had ended up in his shop finding himself unable to leave. 

Crowley understood because he felt it too.

He walked to the bookshop, but he took the scenic route. He definitely wasn’t putting it off, not at all, it was just a nice day and it would be a shame to waste it. His logical mind told him that that was a pathetic excuse, surely it would be quicker and less painful to get it out the way, then maybe he could spend the rest of the day with Aziraphale, he wouldn’t need to meet with Abraham until the evening. He could make his peace with the new friend, Aziraphale was much too important to lose over something so trivial. It didn’t matter anyway. He wasn’t even jealous. Not one bit.

Or rather he thought he wasn’t until he heard the sound of Aziraphale’s singing piercing through the air of the park and caressing his eardrums. He turned his head, glancing around until he found the source of the beautiful sound. They were over by the duck pond. _They_. Abraham was with him, and they were singing what Crowley could only assume were songs from Billy Elliot. It looked like they were already getting themselves hyped up for this evening. 

It had been a long time since he'd seen Aziraphale prance around the pond like he did with Abraham on his heel. It seemed, he thought sadly, that Aziraphale was happy with Abraham by his side. And why shouldn’t he be? Abraham was good; Crowley had even done background checks on him to make sure he wasn’t likely to hurt Aziraphale, not that he could if he tried, and everything had come up clean. There wasn’t a speck of bad on his record, he was good and perfect. Just like Aziraphale. And Crowley was just a demon. Ever since creation they were intended to walk different paths, and maybe they’d crossed over briefly for a little while but now it was time for them to part. He realised that now, with a sudden painful twist of his stomach. 

Every second that Aziraphale spent with Crowley tainted him, darkened the bright light of his being. For the first time Crowley wished he’d never fallen, if he were still an angel then he wouldn’t be so inherently bad. He would be good, maybe even good enough for Aziraphale. Perhaps good wasn’t naturally in his nature, but it could be. He needed Aziraphale to know that he could try to be good. He could do what was best for Aziraphale, even if it hurt him. He'd never really been good at the self sacrificial stuff, but hopefully it wouldn't be too painful.

Crowley took one last look at Aziraphale, he was twirling and skipping between the frightened ducks quickly followed by Abraham, who wasn’t nearly as graceful. With a sad smile he realised what he could do, the best way to show Aziraphale that he was good, that he cared about him. With a heavy heart he turned away and walked straight home.

* * *

It was Sunday, and the sun was just setting. It was annoying. Why did it insist on doing that every day? Glaring through the windows and burning his eyes, like it was doing so just to irritate him. It had done the same thing yesterday. And the day before that. And even, believe it or not, the day before that. He’d never found the resolve to force himself to stand up and shut the curtains. He hadn’t even moved, and it had been nearly two weeks. He’d gone about his normal business for the first few days but doing so had made him realise that he had nothing to look forward to anymore. No drunken conversations with Aziraphale about dolphins and birds sharpening their beaks on mountains, no feeding the ducks or dinner at the Ritz. No one to call him _dear boy_. So instead he just gave up, sat down on the sofa one day and just decided not to get up. Ever. If there was one thing Crowley excelled at, it was dramatics.

Next came the wine. A lot of wine. He'd started drinking on the first Thursday and never really stopped. He was smashed to say the least, but he didn’t care. It made the days blur into each other which seemed to make them pass quicker, if more painfully. It was only the second week without Aziraphale, so he hoped it would get easier with time. Hopefully if he drank enough he’d just forget. Or die. He knew he was being unreasonable and more than a little bit pathetic, but he needed time to wallow in his self pity. He’d received a few phone calls from what he could only imagine were people planning on telling him to get off his arse and go find Aziraphale, and a few people had knocked on the door, probably with the intention of doing the same, but he'd never been bothered to even check who it was. So he was alone. 

Hopefully that human would just hurry up and die. Maybe then he could come out and have Aziraphale all to himself again. He wanted to. God, did he want to. But he couldn’t. Aziraphale was as light as he was dark, as pure as he was tainted. It was for the best, their respective superiors in Heaven and Hell had always said it. They’d warned him to stay away from Aziraphale and he hadn’t listened. And now look where he was, stuck in his flat with a bottle of wine watching the Sound of Music for the thirty sixth time since Friday.  
The knock at the door came again, it had been doing that for a while now, and still Crowley did nothing. It wouldn't have been anything unusual, except this time the knock was accompanied by a voice. A voice soft like feathers and sweeter than honey. 

“Crowley,” it said, so softly he couldn’t even be sure he’d hurt it. It didn’t even register in his brain, it was like the distant hum of music playing on the radio when he was busy doing something else, like thinking about Aziraphale and wallowing in endless glasses of wine. He continued staring blankly at the screen, unaware of what was going on in front of him. He heard a few more knocks and calls but then it was gone. He was thankful, it was getting to be a little irritating.

He thought he might be left in peace for another night, but by the time next song ended there was a shocked yelp coming from his left. He turned his head – the most he’d moved in several days – to check what it was. He recognised the innocent face of Aziraphale looking up at him, but his glasses had slipped off his nose and were now sitting on the floor by his head. Which was also on the floor. His legs, however, were still partially hanging out of the open window. The position didn't look to comfortable, and he idly wondered how long Aziraphale had been there.

Crowley stared for a few more moments before taking another gulp of wine straight from the bottle. Aziraphale pulled his glasses back on and manoeuvred the rest of his body so that he was entirely inside the flat, standing upright with his dignity mostly in check. He didn’t say anything. Minutes passed, and Aziraphale didn’t so much as move. Crowley sighed.

“Why are you here, angel?” he asked, not caring how hoarse his voice sounded. He hadn't said a word in nearing two weeks. Aziraphale shuffled on his feet for a second, before taking a single step closer to the sofa where Crowley was sprawled out inelegantly, like a rag doll.

“I’m worried about you,” he admitted. “Anathema said I had to make you understand, otherwise you’d never stop moping.” Aziraphale sighed and shook his head. “I’m sorry.”

Crowley laughed humourlessly. He knew he was moping, but he also knew that he didn’t care. If he wanted to spend the rest of his existence doing absolutely nothing, why couldn’t he? And if he was going to do that he might as well call it what it was. 

“Anathema said it was to do with Abraham, but she couldn’t say much else. You know what Agnes’ prophecies are like, there’s no way of telling what they mean until the event has already passed.” Aziraphale looked at him sadly, Crowley stared back with empty, unfocussed eyes. 

“Agnes is a crazy bitch,” Crowley spluttered, flopping sideways onto the couch cushions that had been just out of his reach for days. The felt cold against the side of his face.

Aziraphale smiled. “Anathema said you might say that.”

“Shoulda got rid of that human when I had the chance,” Crowley spat. Aziraphale knew he wasn’t talking about Agnes anymore. “He’s a waste of space.”

“Crowley, are you jealous?”

“No!” he screamed, but it didn’t sound nearly as intimidating as he’d hoped it would. He vaulted himself into an upright position with visible effort. He tried to stick the cork back into the wine bottle – he had yet to notice that it had spilled all over the couch when he’d laid down a moment ago – with great difficulty. 

“Here, let me,” Aziraphale offered, reaching to take the bottle out of his unsteady hands. Crowley flinched when those manicured fingers touched his. The were softer and far more gentle than he'd spent the last few days imagining, and he was sure that that was due to Aziraphale's intense moisturising regime.

“No!” he yelled again, finally managing to get the cork back into its home so he could place the bottle on the floor by his feet. “No,” he said, quieter. 

Aziraphale nodded, eyeing the red wine stain on the cushions. “May I sit?” he asked. He’d have to sit very close to Crowley to avoid the stain but perhaps that was better, there was no need for unnecessary distance. They’d had enough of that these past two weeks.

“No, you may not,” said Crowley, stubbornly turning his face away from Aziraphale and sticking his nose in the air like an indignant child. The angel sighed and took a seat on the edge of the coffee table. Crowley tried to stop him by blocking the space with his feet but his reactions were too slow and sloppy and his feet ended up in Aziraphale’s lap. He moved them a moment later when he realised his mistake. He thought he saw the corners of Aziraphale’s mouth twitch upwards, but he couldn’t be sure. He narrowed his eyes. Aziraphale wasn't supposed to laugh at him when he was busy feeling sorry for himself. 

“We’ve been friends for a long time, Crowley,” said Aziraphale, locking eyes with him in a way that forbade him from moving a muscle, even to look away.

“We’re not friends,” Crowley snapped, glaring at the angel with a drunken fire in his eyes.

“My dear boy, if you truly believe that then you are far less intelligent than I previously thought.” Crowley tore his eyes away, his wall was crumbling – he was drunk, he didn’t have the strength to keep it from collapsing on top of him. Hopefully he’d acted quickly enough to stop Aziraphale from seeing the emotion behind his eyes. It was silent for a few long moments. “Crowley,” said Aziraphale solemnly, waiting for Crowley to compose himself and turn his gaze back to his own. When he’d found the courage to make eye contact with Aziraphale again, the angel spoke once more. “My dear, perhaps you are right. We are not friends. Friends is far too casual a term to describe my love for you...and yours for me.”

Silence. Aziraphale’s words hung in the air like fish hooks in a lake, desperately trying to pull Crowley away from his resolve. It almost worked, but Crowley was concentrating hard, trying to replay the words in his head. He wished he wasn’t drunk for this moment, so he could at the very least remember it in the morning, but he couldn’t find the power to will himself sober. Drunk would just have to do for now.

“Maybe…” Crowley said quietly. “Perhaps I am…a little jealous.”

“Why?” asked Aziraphale, in a tone softer than duck down, not in the slightest bit accusatory. Almost as if he was really curious. 

“Because I want you…to belong t-to me and no one else,” Crowley slurred. Perhaps it was a good thing that he was drunk for this conversation after all, at least then he could blame embarrassing sentences like that on the alcohol. Before he could think of a way to backtrack, or pretend to pass out, Aziraphale was beside him, manicured fingers gently caressing his cheek and soft, plump lips delicately ghosting over his own. Not quite a kiss, just the promise of one. Sensations ran through every nerve ending in Crowley’s body. He’d been alone for so long, it was just two weeks but that was a long time without a chance to feel Aziraphale’s tender touches or hear the sound of his gentle voice. Two weeks without Aziraphale might as well have been an eternity.

Aziraphale pulled away, awkwardly standing between the couch and the coffee table, avoiding eye contact as a dark red blush formed on the tips of his ears. He cleared his throat and pushed his glasses further up the bridge of his nose.

“I…” he began. “I am told it is normal to seek companionship…but it seems unnecessary to travel to the ends of the earth to find something I have had all along.”

Crowley grinned and snaked his arm out to catch Aziraphale’s wrist in his hand and tug him forward. Aziraphale obediently followed until he fell straight down into Crowley’s lap, his legs on either side. He blushed even darker. Crowley, filled with drunken bravado, dropped Aziraphale’s wrists and slid his hands around the angel’s body so they lay on the curve of his hips to pull him even closer towards himself. So close that Aziraphale's nose touched his own, and they had no choice but to breathe each other's air. Crowley sighed and pressed his head into Aziraphale's shoulder, moving one hand so that it was tangled in the angel's thick curls. He felt Aziraphale do the same, placing both of his perfectly manicured hands on the nape of Crowley's neck.

"Is that better?" Aziraphale asked, sounding almost shy. Crowley had to smile at that. 

"Yes," he assured the angel. Suddenly, he realised that he'd been acting like a fool. It had never been said with words, but Aziraphale was his all along. A human could never come between that, no matter how hard they tried. "I guess we were always meant to end up here," he said with a smile.

"My dearest Crowley," sighed Aziraphale, stroking his hand through tufts of thick dark hair. "It's ineffable."


End file.
